


And the rest is just typewritten

by GoG (tarsbrain)



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Artist Clarke, F/F, Gen, Modern AU, Stoic Poetry, Student Lexa
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-14
Updated: 2017-08-14
Packaged: 2018-12-15 03:26:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,679
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11797437
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tarsbrain/pseuds/GoG
Summary: A small sign hangs from the folding table reading 'Stoic Poetry' and Clarke can’t help but smile at the stranger's presence at the market.Or the one where Clarke is an artist with a booth at the downtown market, and Lexa and her typewriter make people cry with words.





	And the rest is just typewritten

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by the artists and writers in Asheville.

It’s a brisk spring morning, still early enough that the sun is just above the horizon, sky tinged with pinks and oranges. Clarke sets up her table, shivering in her flannel, but smiles and waves at the other regulars who arrive to start setting up their own booths.

 

She’s thrilled to have gotten a spot at the weekly market downtown this year. Arkadia is known for its arts with an emphasis on buying locally. The artists who get spots here in the heart of downtown definitely count themselves lucky, especially with all the tourists who visit throughout the warmer months.

 

With a few weeks already under her belt, Clarke is on auto-pilot. Prints and cards are laid out on the table, along with her business cards, magnets and her paints. Next up is her easel; she’s found that people are drawn in by the process, and she can make her fair share of sales with her charm.

 

With a satisfied nod, Clarke drops onto the small chair, and focuses on setting up her paints. A few early birds are starting to come through the market, and she can tell it’s going to be a long day.

 

A few musicians have come to busk during the market in previous weeks, but none have set up yet today. She welcomes the silence in the early hours.

 

A steady flow of people are soon meandering through the market and a quiet buzz of chatter grows as the first hours pass. It’s warm enough for Clarke to shuck off her flannel leaving her in her favorite worn Arkadia University longsleeve shirt. She takes the last sip of her coffee, and glances around the market.

 

Clarke got the table at the end, right near the south entrance to the park, and the woman at the table next to her does beautiful letterpress art. Across from her is another artist whose art is more abstract, yet he is known for making the highest sales at the market year after year.

 

Further down towards the center of the market, several potters have mugs, plates, bowls, and a variety of other wares set out, along with a couple fibre artists scattered among other painters and a few cartoonists. At Clarke’s table, a painting of Arkadia’s belltower is coming to life on the easel, watercolors bleeding a little past the pen lines.

 

A new sound pulls Clarke away from her painting. Her head snaps up and she glances around, dropping her paintbrush and trying to find the source. That odd feeling is back in her chest as her eyes land on the table with a little antique typewriter set up on it.

 

Her eyes travel to the woman sitting on the brick wall by the table, dressed in tight black pants and worn button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up. Her posture is so impeccable that Clarke can’t help but envy it. Without a doubt, she’s one of the most beautiful women Clarke has ever seen.

 

A small sign hangs from the folding table reading _Stoic Poetry_ and Clarke can’t help but smile at the stranger's presence.

 

On the first day that the brunette had set up her table and typewriter, and had propped up the little sign, Clarke hadn’t been able to tear her eyes away. She had spent a distracted morning making a good amount of sales, and no headway on her painting. The woman drew people in like a magnetic force.

 

Honestly though, her looks alone were magnetic, Clarke thought, and people seemed to stop as an excuse to speak with her. Small strips of paper are fed into the typewriter, and the woman takes a few minutes to speak with each person who stops before she begins typing away. The first week, Clarke had watched the entire process several times, too intrigued to look away.

 

This week, as in the last few weeks, people come and go frequently. One bursts into tears upon reading the words, and drops a twenty dollar bill into the small jar by the typewriter. Later, a young girl gasps, hand clapped over her mouth. The same girl pulls her cellphone out of her pocket, drops some folded bills into the jar, and begins to speak animatedly into her phone after reading the few lines on her paper.

 

Now, Clarke is sure she hears an audible squeak and glances back over to the brunette. The artist barely manages to stifle a giggle. An enormous man has pulled the writer into a hug. A brief smiles crosses her face. As quickly as it came, it’s gone again, leaving her face schooled in its usual stoic expression. The man ruffles her hair before handing over a to-go cup. The woman calls something after him, and he ambles into the market shaking his head in response.  

 

He passes by Clarke’s table, all towering figure and muscles in a dark shirt and jeans. There’s a tribal looking tattoo peaking out from his shirt on his right arm. Just when Clarke thinks he will pass her by, he stops abruptly, takes a few steps back, and looks over the prints she has laid out in front of her. After a few moments, he looks over at her easel, then at Clarke, who pretends she hasn’t been watching him this whole time.

 

“Your work is very nice,” he says, his deep voice taking her by surprise.

 

“Oh, uh, thanks,” Clarke replies with a smile. His face softens, and he points to the painting on her easel, mountains and trees taking form in all shades of green around the stone wall and road she had sketched out in ink.

 

“That’s just up the parkway, no? You have a good eye.”

 

“Yeah, right up by the garden picnic area. I used to spend all my time up there when I was young,” she says. The tall man nods, and grabs one of her business cards.

 

“Will you be here all spring?” He asks.

 

She nods, and elaborates, “All summer, too.”

 

“I’ll come back to grab a print of that once it’s finished, if you’re selling them.” He scratches his neck, and smiles at the blonde.

 

“I’ll keep one aside for you, then.” He nods at her again and heads up the path toward the other end of the park. Clarke shakes her head, continuing to mix the green on her palette. It seems her attempts to achieve just the right hue of green is futile, and the thought makes her pause.

 

She turns to the woman at the table next to her with the letterpress art. Her name is Niylah, Clarke thinks, but can’t remember now for sure. After a brief moment of hesitation, she covers the prints on her table with a sheet, and turns to the other woman.

 

“Do you mind keeping an eye on this? I need to grab something to eat before I get hangry.” She says, after waving to the woman to get her attention. She had minded Niylah’s table last week in a similar situation, but is still nervous for the artist to say no.

 

“Sure, go ahead,” comes a disinterested reply.

 

“Do you need or want anything? I’m going to grab a pastry.” Clarke asks, pointing to the cafe across the street.

 

“No, thanks, though.”

 

With her wallet in hand, Clarke heads across the street, passing perilously close to the gorgeous brunette and her mysterious typewriter. On her way back, she pauses at the entrance to the park. She hovers for a moment gathering her courage before turning to the woman.

 

Before her brain has caught up with where her feet have taken her, Clarke is close enough that she can see just how intricately the woman’s hair is braided. That, in addition to her long eyelashes and the jawline that could kill a man, makes Clarke’s heart race.

 

With a deep breath, meant to reassure herself, Clarke says, “So how does this work?”

 

The woman with the braids tilts her head to look up at Clarke, and there is definitely a hitch in her breathing. There’s a pause as the two women look at each other.

 

The brunette sighs, “I write words, and you pay what you think they’re worth.”

 

Clarke nods, and waits. The brunette continues to look up at her expectantly.

 

“Uh, isn’t this the part where you, like, write something?” Clarke asks. The green eyes looking back at her narrow.

 

“What’s your name?” the stranger asks.

 

“Clarke, with an e,” Clarke responds, a little confused. And then the long fingers are dancing across the keys of the typewriter. The artist stares, unabashed while waiting. She would give anything to paint the scene, to try to capture the movement of fingers tapping away rhythmically. A few minutes later, the woman clears her throat and the blonde tries not to look too eager.

 

Clarke reaches for the proffered piece of paper, and begins reading.

 

_Try to burn my troubles away_ _  
_ _Drown my sorrow the same way  
_ _Seems no matter how hard I try  
_ _Feels like there’s something just missing inside_

 

“Did you just write some of the lyrics to that Brandi Carlile song from Grey’s Anatomy?” Clarke is outraged. Someone had cried at this woman’s words. She watched it with her own two eyes.

 

“Is this some kind of fucked up joke?” She stomps away, dropping a few dollars into the jar because she can appreciate the starving artist thing, even if she’s pissed at this woman’s con.

 

A closer look at the paper reveals another little detail, the pretty irregular font up top reads ‘Lexa’s Stoic Poetry.’ She spares a glance in Lexa’s direction again, and finds that she’s got her arms crossed and has a genuine pout in place of her usual unfazed expression.

 

Despite her fury (and really, why is she so furious, Clarke wonder briefly), Clarke finds herself weirdly happy just knowing the stranger’s first name.

 

\----

  


For the next few weeks, Clarke spends her time stewing during the week and seething on the weekends at the market. People continue to have very emotional responses to Lexa’s words on their papers. And Lexa, well, Lexa continues to maintain her stoic expression. The rhythm of her typing continues to both soothe and frustrate Clarke.

 

The blonde is having a particularly good sales day, thrilled with the weight of cash in her money bag, and the transactions going through her phone are the highest they’ve been this year. This is why people practically brawl for a spot at this market.

 

The mix of people coming to the market is beginning to skew heavily towards tourists, all of whom would like to feel like they got the real Arkadia experience. This for some reason, often translates into buying art. As one of the few artists who paints while at the market, Clarke draws a considerable crowd each week.

 

A glance over at Lexa, tells the blonde that she’s not the only one with good sales. The brunette is folding away and impressive stack of bills, a rare smile spread across her features. Clarke hates herself for thinking the woman looks even more beautiful, (and really, how is that possible), while smiling.

 

Clarke begins packing up, and as she’s leaving the market, she decides to give Lexa another shot. She strolls up, and pauses to the side of the table. “Just a warning, I’m not giving you five dollars if you write more lyrics from songs that were in Grey’s Anatomy,” Clarke says, “Even though I do love me some Brandi Carlile...”

 

Those piercing green eyes glance up at her, then widen momentarily. Before the blonde can make a snarky comment, the writer has furrowed her brow, her fingers flexing on the keys. Clarke tries for subtlety as she waits, taking in the sharp jawline, the slight frown of concentration, and the well-muscled arms.

 

Before she knows it, she’s holding another bit of paper, words typed out in the neat, slightly faded print.

 

_There’s more than one answer to these questions_  
_Pointing me in a crooked line_  
_The less I seek my source for some definitive  
_ _The closer I am to fine._

 

“Well, clearly I should have specified lyrics in general,” Clarke huffs, as she drops some cash in the jar. “I can at least appreciate the genius of the Indigo Girls, although I was hoping for some original work.”

 

All she gets in return is a smirk, all haughty and proud, and Clarke ignores the way it makes a blush creep up her neck.

 

It becomes a tradition. Each week, Clarke ambles by the little table. Each week, her anger lessens when it’s another cheesy song lyric, despite her hope for original work. Each week, that same smirk greets her with whatever exasperated reply the artist has for the lyrics. Each week, Clarke does the majority of the talking.

 

Clarke can’t tell if Lexa is impressed with her vast knowledge of song lyrics, which seems to match Lexa’s, but clearly the writer isn’t impressed enough to come up with some original stoic work as is advertised on her sign.

 

_You don’t know how far I’d go_  
_To ease this precious ache_  
_You don’t know how much I’d give_  
_Or how much I can take  
_ _Just to reach you_

 

“One day I will get to the bottom of the catalogue of lesbian lyrics in your brain.” Clarke mumbles, dreading having this particular song stuck in her head for the next few days.

 

A chuckle stops her in her tracks. Her eyes dart up just in time to catch the Lexa’s green eyes widening, and a hand coming up to cover her mouth, but it’s too late. Clarke has seen the wide smile and the brightness it brings to Lexa’s eyes. It feels like a victory.

 

“Or, even crazier still, maybe, one day, y’know, if you’re feeling particularly wild, you could say more than a sentence or two to me. You’re chatty with everyone else.”

 

Green eyes narrow at the statement. “Are you watching me, Clarke?” Lexa asks, with more emphasis than is really necessary on the ‘k’ at the end, in Clarke’s opinion. The artist is about to accuse the writer of sorcery for knowing her name when she remembers she’d been asked the first time they’d met. That was almost a month and a half ago, though, and her stomach flips at the thought that the brunette still remembers her name.

 

“Maybe I am, maybe I’m not.” Clarke replies. “It’s a mystery, just like your never ending knowledge of LGBT lyrics as of late.” With that, feeling like she’s gotten in the last word (finally a modicum of victory), she turns on the spot, and heads for her apartment across town.

 

\------

 

“So this mystery girl makes other people, like, legitimately cry with her words.” Octavia says, after Clarke has finally broken down and complained to her about Lexa.

 

“Yup,” Clarke nods.  

 

“But she keeps writing song lyrics for you?”

 

“Yes ma’am.”

 

“But like, specifically gay song lyrics, right? Like the shit you wouldn’t stop listening to when you came out?” Raven calls from the kitchen.

 

“You got it.”

 

“So she’s either a super freak, or just too intimidated by the Clarke Griffin charm to function.” Octavia replies after taking a few minutes to mull over the information.

 

“Pretty much my conclusion. The first part, anyway, she doesn’t seem remotely interested in the Clark Griffin charm,” Clarke responds.

 

“Not possible, I don’t believe it,” Raven pipes up, having come back from the kitchen with beers for the other two. “No one can be immune from the Clarke Griffin charm.”

 

“Well, she may be the exception to the rule then,”

 

“Wait a minute, Clarke,” Octavia shoots upright. “Do you like her?”

 

“Uhh, no, Octavia, she’s infuriating,” Clarke says, rolling her eyes, willing her friends not to notice the pink tinge creeping up her neck.

 

“Liking someone and finding them infuriating is like, the same thing,” Octavia replies, and Clarke looks to Raven for help.

 

Raven is observing her with her eyes narrowed, then shrugs. “I think you’ve got a big fat crush on the girl who writes you gay song lyrics.”

 

“What the hell? Noo!” Clarke sits back, arms crossed. There’s no denying the blush rising on her cheeks this time and she’s peeved.

 

“Hot damn, that’s a blush.” Raven and Octavia high five, and Clarke chugs her beer.

 

“You two are the worst,” she mutters as the other two giggle and whisper something unintelligible. Clarke finishes her beer and  buries her head in a pillow.

 

\------

 

The next week, Clarke is dismayed to see that Lexa doesn’t set up shop near her in the morning. As the day wears on, she finds herself straining to hear the clicking keys of a typewriter, and longing to catch a glimpse of curly brown hair and piercing green eyes.

 

It’s a busy day, one of the best days of the summer at the market, surely. Clarke has sold a huge portion of her merchandise and her eyes widen as she checks her sale numbers. When the madness is finally over, she packs up the few prints that are left, feeling a bit bummed at not catching sight of Lexa. On one hand, the brunette is indeed infuriating. But on the other hand, the artist has been looking forward to their weekly encounters more and more.

 

Clarke heads back to her apartment and spends the rest of the afternoon fulfilling onlines sales, and working on bulking up her stock for next week’s market. Her phone buzzes across the apartment and she ignores it while she fights with some cellophane packaging. After two more buzzes, she gives up on the devil-plastic, and grabs her phone.

 

The group chat with Raven and Octavia has a few unread messages, and Clarke sighs. The two of them are demanding her presence at the Dropship.

 

After typing out ‘no’ a few times before then erasing it again each time, she glances down at her black jeans and old t-shirt, and shrugs. On her way out of the apartment, she goes to grab her leather jacket but stops, realizing it’s actually warm out and she would sweat to death in it.

 

The blonde decides to walk the 15 minutes, rather than drive herself and fight the masses to find a parking space. When she arrives, the Dropship is bursting at the seam with people, to the point where even the outdoor patio is overrun. Clarke momentarily considers turning and running back to her apartment when she hears her name called.

 

Luckily she doesn’t have to crane her neck to search too long. Octavia, who’s carrying three beers, hip checks her in greeting, and the blonde follows her to a table in the corner of the outdoor area.

 

“It took me 10 minutes and a pointed cleavage flaunt to get these,” Octavia says as they sit next to Raven, “these tourists are the worst.”

 

“I agree! I had to use mean words to keep those seats.”

 

“These tourists almost bought everything I brought to the market today, so I’m not gonna curse them,” Clarke says, grabbing one of the beers and taking a sip.

 

“Well then cheers to that, Griffin,” Raven says, and the three of them clink glasses.

 

“Was your mystery girl there today?” Octavia asks, as she and Raven share knowing looks.

 

The artist shakes her head, and another look passes between the other two.

 

“Quit it with the looks, guys,” Clarke says with a huff.

 

“Oh come on, after all of the teasing you’ve doled out since we’ve known each other?” Raven asks, leaning in. “All the times you joked about Wick the Dick?”

  
“And when I was dating Atom, don’t forget how obnoxious you were,” Octavia reminds her.

 

“Those are both different.”

 

“How, Clarke, how are they different?” Octavia asks.

 

“You actually were dating them, you stood a chance, okay?” The blonde sighs and reaches for her beer, taking a deep swig.

 

“What happened to our overly confident friend Clarke Griffin?” Raven is looking at her, concern clear in her eyes.

 

“She’s been burned a few too many times,” Clarke responds. She takes another big sip of her beer.

 

Octavia puts up her hand to stop the blonde. “I can only get so far with my cleavage, chill with the big gulps of beer, dude.”

 

“Enough about me then, what’ve you been up to?” Clarke tries valiantly to change the topic, and is grateful when Raven nods and launches into a story. Raven’s crazy job is always fodder for even crazier stories.

 

With one ear on Raven’s story about a prematurely exploding rocket, Clarke glances around at the other people at the Dropship. She catches a glimpse of brown braids and curly hair, and tunes out of her friend’s story entirely. Her stomach drops.

 

Sitting two tables down, is Lexa, and she’s laughing with a blonde woman. Clarke can only see the woman’s profile, and even still she can tell that the woman is gorgeous: cheekbones for days, flawless skin, long dyed blonde hair, and muscles rippling in her arm as she gesticulates. Well, shit.

 

Clarke is snapped out of her stupor by a sharp smack to her arm.

 

“Ow, damn Raven,” Clarke mutters, rubbing her arm and looking away from Lexa and the gorgeous girl she’s with.

  
“You didn’t laugh at my hilarious story, and it’s bruising my ego,” Raven replies. “What were you zoned out about?”

 

“Nothing sorry, it was a long day today, you know... lots of tourists and stuff,” she finishes lamely.

 

“I call bullshit,” Octavia says, looking over to see what Clarke had been looking at.

 

“Agreed, spill princess.” Raven crosses her arms and looks at Clarke. With a sigh, she relents.

  
“Okay, the girl from the market is here, and I think she’s on a date with a really cute girl, and I’m sorry I didn’t listen to your story. I didn’t mean to be a bad friend.”

 

“Clarke, she’s here? As in, like, at the Dropship here?” Their eyes are bulging, and Octavia starts staring around at everyone around them.

 

“Yes, brown curly hair, a few tables down? Across from cheekbones with the blonde hair?” Their necks snap in the direction she’s tilting her head, and Clarke buries her face in her fingers. “Guys, subtlety is a thing. Maybe, like, I don’t know, try not to be so obvious?”

 

“Braids?” Octavia asks. Clarke nods, and groans when she sees the look shared between her friends.

 

“I can see the appeal, Clarkey,” Raven says with a small smile. “But honestly, I’d tap her date in a heartbeat.”

 

“Ew, Raven. That’s definitely not helpful.”

 

“Yeah, Raven, there is a full on gay crisis going on right now,” Octavia chastises. Raven responds with something about Clarke not being able to have a full gay crisis if she also likes dudes sometimes, and Clarke has to stop them.

 

“Guys, it’s really not a big deal, okay? I’ll just lay low for a while and try and get over this stupid crush.” Clarke drains the last of her beer.

 

“So you admit it’s a crush? Finally.”

 

“Yeah, yeah, I’m going home, I’m exhausted. You two have fun though.” Octavia is struck dumb as the artist stands up, hands her some money for the beer, and goes to leave.

 

“Bye Griffin,” Raven calls after her.

  
“Bye Raven.”

 

\------

 

The following week brings torrential downpours and summer storms in the afternoons, and Clarke is happy to have the weather match her mood. The rain also inspires her, and she’s got several new melancholy paintings of Arkadia in the rain, with buildings reflected in puddles, and silhouettes of soggy tourists.

 

There are several sketches of a figure hunched over an old typewriter, but those are all deemed unworthy and tossed aside, even though Clarke can’t bring herself to toss them out entirely. She’s ignored several pleas by Raven and Octavia to meet them out for drinks, and by Thursday, the seem to have understood that she needs some space.

 

Thankfully, by Saturday morning when Clarke heads to the market to set up, the sky is bright blue and the weather forecast is clear. She still brings a few towels just in case she needs to wipe off her table.

 

The first few hours of the morning bring the sleepy market-goers, clinging to their coffee cups for dear life, barely conversing with their significant others or friends. The artist is intrigued by this demographic, often itching to sketch couples who frequent the market week after week. She ignores the urge each time, telling herself she needs to focus on the prints that make her money.

 

It’s just before 11 when the characteristic sound of typewriter keys floats over from the entrance of the park. A glance in the direction confirms what Clarke already knows to be true. Lexa is back.

 

\------

 

There’s only a few weeks left of the market, and it’s been over two weeks since Lexa’s last appearance. The tourists are starting to trickle out of Arkadia, slowing down the days Clarke spends behind the table of prints. Even still, there are a lot of customers coming through, but the days drag on without a mysterious brunette to ogle sneakily.

 

The tall man with the deep voice and tribal tattoo on his arm, the one who had brought Lexa coffee, stops by the market and buys a few prints. His smile grows when Clarke pulls out the print he had originally commented on. It’s now completed, and larger than many of her other prints, with the stone wall and road wrapping around a mountain, melting into the clouds and trees.

 

“I promised you I’d save you one,” she says, suddenly shy.

 

“I do appreciate it. It turned out even more beautiful than I was expecting.” He gazes at the print a few moments longer. “My niece adores this place. She used climb the tallest tree by the hiking trail and refused to come down for hours.”

 

“Sounds like she and I would have gotten along as kids,” Clarke muses. He pays for the prints, and thanks her again as he walks away.

 

After wrapping up at the market, Clarke heads up to the parkway, lost in thought. Before she can register how much time has passed, she’s parked at the trailhead the man had mentioned earlier.

 

It’s not a tough trail, but the exercise does wonders to clear Clarke’s mind. She’s almost all the back to the trailhead when she hears a clap of thunder. Seconds later it’s a downpour. The blonde takes off running, hoping the storm isn’t moving too quickly or she’ll be in trouble.

 

Winded from sprinting, Clarke has just about made it to the safety of her car when she catches sight of brown curls and familiar braids. There aren’t any other cars in the parking lot though, and before she can change her mind, she lunges towards the woman.

  
“Come on, get in the car,” she yells over the howling winds. She keeps a hand on the brunette’s back and steers her towards her little hatchback. Once inside, she reaches into the backseat for the towels she’d left there that morning when she’d seen rain in the forecast during market hours. She quickly hands the nicer one to Lexa.

 

“Th-thank you, Clarke,” Lexa stammers. She goes about drying off quietly, and Clarke turns on the engine to get some air moving in the cabin.

 

“What’re you doing out here?” Clarke asks. “I thought you might have left town, after I didn’t see you at the market the last few weeks.”

 

“No, I didn’t leave. I can take a hint, you know, and anyway classes started last week,” Lexa replies.

 

Clarke tilts her head, confused. Part of her brain is still focused on the classes part, but the thought is abandoned for the more important one. “What do you mean you can take a hint?”

 

Lexa is suddenly very intent on drying her hair, avoiding eye contact with the blonde. It’s quiet in the car, but the thunder and rain of the storm are almost deafening.

 

“I gave you my number for like a month. Four times in a row. And I never heard from you, so yeah, I can take a hint, Clarke.”

 

The blonde is dumbfounded. She opens her mouth once, and promptly closes it again. It happens two more times, and Lexa sighs.

  
“It’s okay, Clarke. I get it.”

 

“Wait, no.” The artist is still struggling to put together words in her brain, let alone string a sentence together out loud. “What do you mean you gave me your number, I never-oh.” She looks over at the woman with the intricate braids, the woman who is still avoiding her gaze.

 

“Oh.”

 

She reaches past Lexa’s knee, opening up the glove compartment. She pulls a small zippered pouch from inside before slamming the compartment shut again. The artist can feel green eyes watching her as she unzips the pouch and pulls out the last typewritten papers.

 

“Oh.” Clarke whispers again. “Oh, God.”

 

_Maybe a great magnet pulls_   
_All souls to what is true_   
_Or maybe it is life itself_ _  
That feeds wisdom to its youth_

 

And of course Lexa is right. The proof is on the little piece of paper, above the k.d. lang lyrics, below the _Lexa’s Stoic Poetry_ heading _._ Clear as day (now that Clarke knows to look for them), are 10 digits.

 

She flips back to the previous page. They’re there again, along with heading and lyrics from Halsey’s “Strangers.” The next one also has the phone number.

 

How in the hell had she missed this?

 

In short, Clarke feels like an idiot.

 

“Are you going to say anything other than ‘oh,’” Lexa asks, but it’s barely audible over the storm raging outside of the car.

 

Clarke pauses, then pulls out her phone. She briefly wonders at how patient Lexa must be to not be begging for answers. Clarke wills Lexa to hold on just another moment as she hits send on a message, heart beating wildly in her chest. She can only hope the clap of thunder rumbling above them is loud enough that Lexa can’t hear just how fast her heart is beating.  

 

A quiet text notification on the Lexa’s phone seems to startle her. She pulls out her phone, brows furrowing at the unfamiliar number.

 

“Open it,” Clarke prods, possessing exactly none of the patience Lexa had shown.

 

Green eyes meet hers, and Clarke’s breath hitches when they dart back down to her phone. Her thumb drags across the screen to open the message and it’s quiet in the car again.

 

Unknown Number:  
 _oh lord, what can i say  
_ _i’m so sad since you went away  
_ _time, time, ticking on me  
_ _alone is the last place i wanted to be,  
_ _lord, what can I say_

  
The silence stretches on and Clarke briefly considers that the world may be ending. Dramatic? Yes. But, Clarke reasons, artists should have a healthy flair for dramatics.

 

“Did you just text me the lyrics to that Brandi Carlile song from Grey’s Anatomy? Is this some kind of messed up joke?”

 

Clarke’s heart sinks. She can feel a blush rising on her cheeks, and doubt blooming in her chest. Then, long fingers grab hold of her hand, and tug. After willing herself to look up, Clarke sees that Lexa is honest to God beaming at her, shoulders shaking with suppressed laughter.

 

Oh.

 

Clarke mirrors the smile, doubt vanished in an instant. And suddenly they’re both laughing, fingers still intertwined on the center console.

 

It takes a few minutes for them to calm down.

 

“Lexa, I’m so so sorry. I wish I had noticed, but I was so focused on our snarky back and forth uh, thing. And I, well, I never considered that you might, like, actually like me back?” Clarke is blushing again, but she needs to be honest. She’d never even thought about what she might say to Lexa in this situation, because she’d never imagined that it would happen.  

 

“Clarke,” Lexa squeezes her hand lightly, “I could have been more forward, too. I’m sorry too. For not coming back, y’know? I’ve missed you, actually.”

 

“Apology accepted,” Clarke says with a smile. Her heart feels like it’s growing in her chest at an alarming rate. “I’ve really missed having you at the market. The sound of your typing,  your impressive knowledge of good lyrics, and your command of that snarky, yet somehow sexy smirk...”

 

Lexa lets out a tiny giggle. “I accept your apology as well, Clarke.”

 

“Good. Uh, okay, we should probably head back to Arkadia, I guess.” Clarke scratches the back of her neck nervously. “Do you want to come to my apartment and warm up with some tea?” She is trying to be brave. Trying to be brave because Lexa had been incredibly brave, and now it was Clarke’s turn.

 

“I-, uh, I would love to, actually,” Lexa replies and Clarke is beaming again.

 

“You can DJ. You have pretty good music taste, from what I can tell. But I want you to know this is a privilege, so don’t mess it up, okay?” Clarke pauses, not quite relinquishing her grasp on the Aux cord she’s handing to Lexa. “By the way, how did you even get here?”

 

“I biked.” Lexa admits, scrolling through a playlist on her phone. “I needed to clear my head and remove the temptation to go back to the market today.”

 

“I could probably fit it in the back of my car if you need it for tomorrow?” Clarke gestures vaguely behind her, then looks over to Lexa, who’s shaking her head.

 

“Nah, I’ll come back for it with my uncle's truck. I don’t feel like going out in the rain again.” Lexa decides on a song, then turns up the volume. Tracy Chapman’s cover of “Stand by Me” comes through the speakers.

 

“Good choice,” Clarke comments, as she pulls out of the parking space and back onto the parkway. The rest of the ride is passed in comfortable silence. The rain lightens up as she makes her way down the mountain.

 

Back outside her apartment building, she waits to shut off the engine until the last few notes of a song fade from the speakers.

 

“Will you send me that song?” Clarke asks as she gathers up the towels, “I don’t think I’ve ever heard it.”

 

“Have I finally bested you at lesbian songwriters?” Lexa is looking entirely too triumphant.

 

“If I say yes, will you tell me who sings it?”

 

“Chris Pureka singing, and the song is called Porch Songs.”

 

“I’m almost glad you didn’t show up the last few weeks then or I would’ve thought you were writing me some original work,” Clarke says.

 

“Would that have been bad?” Lexa asks hesitantly as they pause outside Clarke’s apartment door. The blonde fishes out her keys and opens the door, gesturing for Lexa to go in first.

  
“Ladies first,” she says with a wink. “And I guess not bad, but I probably would’ve made a fool of myself and done something like cry, or kiss you or something.”

 

“And, uh, kissing me would be bad?”

 

Lexa watches as Clarke stills, opens her mouth, then shuts it again.

 

“I never said that, Lexa,” the artist mutters. She turns to face the brunette, and Lexa thinks for a brief moment that she’s going for the kiss. Instead, Clarke pulls at the fabric of her drenched t-shirt, then tilts her head down the hall. “Can I get you a change of clothes?”

 

Lexa nods, and follows the blonde after a brief pause. Clarke is digging through drawers when she leans on the doorway. A longsleeve Arkadia U shirt is thrown in her direction along with gym shorts.

 

“The bathroom is across the hall. Are those okay?” Clarke asks.

 

“Yes, thank you, Clarke.” Lexa turns and heads across the hall.

 

Clarke closes the door and changes quickly before making her way to the kitchen to set water to boil. She pulls down her tea selections and startles when Lexa appears at her side.

 

“God, what are you, like a ninja or something?” The artist is clutching at her chest. “I didn’t even hear you.”

 

“No, not a ninja,” Lexa says with a laugh. “As a kid, my uncle liked to tell me that in my past life I was a warrior, part of a tree clan of sorts. I spent my childhood in the woods, sneaking around as quietly as possible in hopes of making my past self proud.” The tips of her ears tinge pink at the admission, but Clarke smiles, her fondness for Lexa growing even more.

 

She busies herself with making the tea, and the two women settle on the couch with steaming mugs a few minutes later.

 

“When I was younger, my dad used to tell me stories about the stars, and that humans would one day live among them. He and my mom would find me after I snuck out of bed on clear nights, laying on a blanket in the backyard.”

 

Lexa grins at the image. “So you’re a sky girl, and I’m a tree girl, which is fitting, with my last name and all.”

 

“What is your last name? I just realized I have no idea.”

 

“Woods. Yours is Griffin,” Lexa says, and then a blush is rising in her cheeks.

 

“And how exactly do you know that, Lexa?” Clarke asks, curious.

 

“I stopped by your table at the market and took a business card?” Lexa tries, but Clarke narrows her eyes. “Okay, fine, I had my uncle stop by your table and grab a business card for me.”

 

Clarke finally puts two and two together. “Your uncle is the super tall guy, deep voice?” The writer nods. “He said you used to always climb the trees up at the trailhead, where I found you. That’s how I ended up there today.”

 

“Well, I, for one, am glad you did. I’m happy we’re doing this.” Lexa gestures to the tea, and Clarke.

 

“Better late than never?” Clarke tries.

 

“Better late than never,” the brunette agrees.

 

\-----

  


In the end, it’s Clarke who brings Lexa back to get her bike after they spend the evening on the couch. They had ordered food when Lexa’s stomach growled loudly, causing the tips of her ears to tinge pink with embarrassment.

 

At some point before dawn, after talking the night away, they nod off, Lexa’s head on Clarke’s shoulder, the blonde’s arm slung around her. After they wake up, sheepish and grinning shyly, they hike the trail together early in the morning, before stowing the bike in the back of the artist’s car.

 

The Sunday morning hike soon becomes a regular occurrence. It’s every other week at first, in between weekday evening dates, though it soon becomes a weekly occurrence. In the beginning Clarke picks Lexa up, pressing a cup of coffee in her hand along with her favorite pastry from the coffee shop near Clarke’s apartment.

 

Even as the weather grows colder, they refuse to give up their new tradition. A running bet starts; the first person to slip and fall on ice will have to buy the other person lunch. Out of stubbornness (and Lexa’s unbelievable cat-like reflexes), they manage to get through the winter without a single fall.

 

At some point in the winter, Clarke no longer has to drive to pick up Lexa, as she can be found buried under blankets in Clarke’s warm bed more often than not. It had happened without her really realizing (such a cliché really): Lexa’s clothes invading her closet, her books migrating to Clarke’s already overfilled bookshelves, her school bag slung by the door each day.

 

Lexa is introduced to Raven and Octavia earlier than Clarke had intended. The two burst into Clarke’s apartment one evening, claiming that the artist not responding to their texts constitutes enough of an emergency to use the emergency key. The blonde is blushing furiously, trying to block a shirt-less Lexa from view, yelling at her idiot friends.

 

They end up at the Dropship for drinks so that they can give their blessing. Lexa is so nervous she spills half of her beer, until Clarke tugs her hand under the table, squeezing it with her own. Octavia approves as soon as Lexa agrees to let her come to a Krav Maga lesson with her next week. (Octavia approves even more when she sets eyes on Lincoln, the class instructor.) When Lexa gets into a heated debate with Raven about machines and the harm they do to the environment, not standing down when Raven tries to intimidate her, Raven also approves.

 

Clarke meets Lexa’s uncle and cousin soon after. She and Gustus get on famously from the start, though Anya is slower to warm to her. It’s not until Clarke makes a joke that has beer coming through Lexa’s nose, that Anya sends her a nod before launching into mocking her cousin. She later pulls the artist aside with a range of creative threats she intends to follow through on should her cousin ever get hurt. Clarke nods solemnly. Gustus pulls her into a big hug, thanking her for making his niece happy. Lexa blushes as she pulls her girlfriend away from her uncle, apologizing for his lack of boundaries.

 

As time goes by, their evenings shift from dinners out and trying too hard to impress each other, to quiet time spent together. Lexa’s schoolwork picks up in the spring semester, and her evenings are full of studying and fulfilling her TA duties by grading essays. Clarke spends her time painting or sketching, finding her spiral bound sketchbook filling with little character studies of Lexa.

 

Clarke learns that Lexa is a brilliant cook, despite the fact that she rarely looks at recipes. She learns that Lexa likes to be cozy when it’s gray out, and that her brow furrows adorably when she’s writing papers on conservation.

 

There are mornings when the blonde wakes up and finds the other woman in front of her typewriter, fingers flying across the keys. She’s admitted to Clarke that writing is freeing for her, that she’s better with words when she’s writing rather than speaking.

 

Clarke makes a comment about wanting to read Lexa’s poetry, still remembering the strong reactions people had to the words last summer. She begins finding little typewritten love notes tucked in her sketchbook. More notes appear under her phone on her bedside table on mornings when Lexa has an early class that she doesn’t wake Clarke for.

 

Clarke gets an exhibition at a gallery right downtown, and spends weeks immersed in the studio, refusing to show Lexa her work. When pressed, she just shakes her head, muttering that it’s different than anything she’s done before.

 

On the opening night of the show, Lexa arrives embarrassingly early with her scowling cousin in tow. There, on a huge canvas in the middle of the gallery, is her own face staring back at her. Except, the Lexa in the painting dressed in armor and long layers, and has black markings painted on her cheeks and a gold symbol between her brows.

 

Lexa moves closer, intrigued. As they move around the gallery, she and Anya find many familiar faces, including Anya and Gustus. Anya is surveying the work with a glint in her eye and a rare smile graces her features when Clarke arrives and explains her inspiration had been Lexa, the warrior in a past life, who led the tree clan.

 

A few more months down the road, and Lexa is setting up her typewriter next to Clarke’s prints again, enjoying the brisk late-spring morning. They've collaborated on a few print-and-poem cards that have done extremely well in Clarke’s online shop. The summer sales at the market reach new heights, and Clarke is amazed.

 

At the end of the summer, they find themselves up at their favorite trail, in the pouring rain. Clarke tilts her head back and lets the rain wash over her at the summit, and Lexa is sure she has never seen anything as perfect in her whole life. She’ll later pinpoint that particular moment as the moment she knew she wanted to marry Clarke.

 

Clarke’s mother comes into town unexpectedly in the fall. Clarke is setting up for another exhibit at a gallery downtown, so it’s Lexa who answers the door, nervous to meet Clarke’s only extant family. That night when Lexa wakes up in bed alone, she gets up to look for Clarke. She finds her on the couch with her mother, talking about her dad.

 

Both women are crying, Abby’s hand held firm in Clarke’s. Wordlessly, Lexa heads to the kitchen to grab a carton of ice cream, along with three spoons. She slides in behind Clarke on the couch, deposits the open carton and two spoons in her lap, then digs in with her own spoon. When Clarke looks up, nervous to see how her mother will react, she finds the woman beaming despite the tears rolling down her cheeks.

 

In the end it’s Lexa who proposes. Lexa had been pulling extra shifts writing poetry on the Arkadia University campus around Valentine's day to be able to buy the ring, just a simple band with a small emerald. It’s a rainy, cold Tuesday in early spring, the kind that would usually find the pair cuddled on the couch with a movie. Instead she drives Clarke up to the mountains, to their trail.

 

The artist is grumbling about the cold rain, and barely stops walking when Lexa kneels before her. The ‘yes’ comes out before Lexa can finish her proposal, before she’s talked about falling in love with Clarke over the years with each step they’ve taken together on the trail, before Lexa’s talked about the moment she knew she wanted to marry Clarke.

 

In the end, it doesn’t matter. Clarke pulls Lexa to her feet, shiny ring in place on her finger, and kisses her fiercely.

 

It feels like it’s the start of something wonderful.


End file.
